Bloodshed of Eagles

Chapter Eighteen

June 21, 1876

Alongside the Far West

Custer issued an officers’ call to bring, not just the commanders, but every officer of the Seventh to his tent.

“Gentlemen, I am allocating twelve pack mules to each troop. Prepare yourselves for a long, hard march. Take fifteen days rations of hard bread,* coffee, and sugar, and twelve days rations of bacon. Choose your strongest animals to carry reserve ammunition—I want a minimum of twenty-four thousand additional rounds carried with the regiment. In addition, each man will be issued one hundred rounds of carbine and twenty-four rounds of pistol ammunition.”

“What about sabers?” Reno asked.

“No sabers. We’ll leave them here with the steamer.”

“The cavalry without sabers?” Reno said. “That doesn’t seem right.”

“The sabers will just take up more weight and space. Also, when a cavalry troop is on the march, the loudest thing you can hear are the rattling sabers. Besides, they are more ornamental than practical. Leave them here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I hope you all understand that it isn’t just probable that we are going to engage the enemy. It is an absolute certainty that we will.”

There was no response.

“You do know what that means, don’t you?”

“I think so,” Lieutenant Weir replied.

“Look around,” Custer said. “Look at the man who is standing next to you. There is a very good chance that one or both of you may not make it back alive. So when you return to your encampment, I want you to write your wills, have your men make certain that they either make out their own wills, or leave verbal instructions as to the disposition of their personal effects.”

“Yes, sir,” Reno said.

Custer held up his finger. “Mind you don’t overly frighten them, just make certain that these necessary details are taken care of.”

Falcon studied the faces of all the officers as they listened to Custer. Earlier, the expressions had been of confidence, even a bit of arrogance. Now, even the most confident and arrogant among them was wearing a somewhat anxious expression.

“That’s all, gentlemen. You are dismissed.”

Just as the officers broke up and started to leave, Custer called out to them.

“Gentlemen, we are going to follow this trail until we find the Indians, no matter how long it takes. That means we may not see the steamer again, so my advice to you is to take along several extra rations of salt. It could be we are going to wind up living on horse meat before this scout is through.”

Returning to the individual troop encampments, the officers informed the men that they would be moving out the next day.

General Terry gave permission for any soldier who wanted it to draw one cup of whiskey from the kegs. Most, but not all, of the troopers availed themselves of that offer; then, many gathered for all-night card games. Many others took the opportunity to write one last letter home, and several, Falcon noticed, seemed to have a sense of foreboding.

Tom Custer invited Falcon to join him, Boston, Calhoun, Autie Reed, Keogh, Cooke, and Weir. They were all gathered around a campfire, drinking, joking, and laughing, though Falcon had the idea that a lot of the laughter was forced.

“Jimmi, my boy,” Tom Custer said. “Do you think there will be any women in Fiddler’s Green?”

“Now, why would I want to be worrying about women in Fiddler’s Green?” Calhoun answered. “I’m married to your sister, remember?”

“Ah, yes,” Tom said. He held up his finger. “But once you get to Fiddler’s Green, that won’t matter. Do you think Maggie will never get married again?”

“First thing I’m going to do when I get to Fiddler’s Green is look up Major Elliot and ask him just what the hell he was thinking by running off by himself like that back there at Washita,” Cooke said.

“I thought Major Elliot was dead,” Boston said.

“He is.”

“Then what do you mean you are going to look him up when you get to Fiddler’s Green?”

The other officers looked at Boston and laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Boston asked.

“Yeah,” Autie Reed asked. “What is so funny about that question?”

“You boys will find out in a few days,” Keogh said.

“No, they won’t,” Tom said, taking a drink of whiskey from his tin cup. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “If they have any sense, they’ll be back with the trains.”

“I don’t intend to stay with the wagons once the fighting starts,” Boston said.

“Me neither,” Autie Reed added. “Uncle Autie has said that when we go into battle, I will have the honor of holding the flag.”

“You are staying with the trains,” Tom said resolutely. “It’s bad enough that Autie is going to get himself and me killed. There’s no sense in killing you, too.”

The little group of men, who had been singing and laughing earlier, now grew quiet.

“Tom, that’s a little morbid, isn’t it?” Cooke asked.

“You’re right, Cooke,” Tom said. He smiled broadly, then reached over and slapped his friend on the back. “A few days from now, we’ll both be laughing about this—either back in garrison or at Fiddler’s Green. No sense in getting all morbid over it now.”

“Where is Fiddler’s Green?” Autie Reed asked.

“It is more of a what than a where,” Keogh answered.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Here’s a poem for you, lad,” Keogh said. Standing up, he stuck his left hand inside his tunic, held his right arm out in front of him, then stepped forward with his right foot and in a deep and booming voice, delivered his poem:

And so when man and horse go down

Beneath a saber keen,

Or in a roaring charge of fierce melee

You stop a bullet clean,

And the hostiles come to get your scalp,

Just empty your canteen,

And put your pistol to your head

And go to Fiddlers’ Green.

The others applauded.

“That still doesn’t tell me what Fiddler’s Green is,” Autie Reed complained.

“Perhaps Colonel MacCallister can explain,” Tom Custer suggested, though it was obvious from the tone of his voice that he didn’t actually believe Falcon could explain it.

“Fiddler’s Green is a place where the fiddler never stops playing, and the glass never runs dry. It’s a place where all cavalrymen go after they die, there to await the final resurrection,” Falcon said.

“Just cavalrymen?” Boston asked.

“Just cavalrymen,” Falcon replied.

“What about people who aren’t actually in the cavalry, but who ride with them?”

Tom laughed. “All right, little brother, if you are that set on getting into Fiddler’s Green, I reckon I can put in a good word for you. For the two of you,” he added, looking over at Autie Reed. “Though you,” he said, pointing to Autie Reed, “will have to stand over in the corner until you get a little older. It wouldn’t do to have you drinking with the likes of us, as young as you are.”

“But, if Fiddler’s Green is a place you go after you die, I’ll never get any older,” Autie Reed complained. “I’ll just have to stand in the corner forever.”

Everyone laughed at that, and this time, the laughter was genuine.

“Colonel MacCallister?” a voice called from the darkness outside the bubble of golden light put out by the campfire.

“Who’s out there?” Tom Custer called.

“It’s me, sir, Private Burkman.”

“Well, John, don’t stand out there in the dark, come join us.”

Custer’s orderly stepped far enough forward that he could be seen.

“What can we do for you?” Tom asked.

“General Custer sent me to find Colonel MacCallister.”

“You found him,” Tom said. He pointed to Falcon. “He’s the only man among us who isn’t drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” Boston said. “And neither is Autie Reed.”

“I said the only ‘man’ among us who isn’t drunk,” Tom said, and again, the others laughed.

“What do you need, Burkman?”

“The general’s compliments, sir, and he asks if you will join him in his tent?”

“I’ll be glad to,” Falcon said.

“Colonel MacCallister!” Tom called as Falcon started after Burkman. Falcon turned back toward him.

“We’ll be gettin’ up a card game in Fiddler’s Green. Will you be sittin’ in?”

“Not if I can help it,” Falcon called back, and again, all around the campfire laughed.

As Falcon followed Burkman through the encampment, they passed a group of soldiers who were singing. The singing was surprisingly good, with the voices blending in perfect harmony.

We are ambushed and surrounded

Sergeant Flynn.

But recall has not sounded

Sergeant Flynn.

Our blades run red and gory,

And we’ll die for the Glory,

Of the Seventh Cavalry and Garryowen.

Garryowen, Garryowen, Garryowen.

In the valley of Montana all alone,

There are better days to be

In the Seventh Cavalry,

And we’ll die for the glory of Garryowen

When Falcon reached Custer’s tent, Custer was writing a letter while drinking coffee and eating cookies. Pushing the letter aside, he picked up a tray and offered a cookie to Falcon.

“This is the last batch of cookies Mary made before I sent her back on The Josephine,” he said. Like the Far West, The Josephine was a riverboat that had been carrying supplies and mail to and from the expedition.

“Thanks,” Falcon said, accepting a cookie. He took a bite. “They are very good.”

“Libbie and I have had a lot of people cook for us over the years we have been married, but I do think Mary is the best yet.”

“It is a good cookie, General, but I get the idea you didn’t call me here just to enjoy the cookies.”

“Huhmp,” Custer chuckled. He pulled a cookie crumb from his mustache, held it on the end of his finger for a moment to examine it, then licked it off. “You are a pretty perceptive man.”

“You have something on your mind?”

“Are you going with us, or, are you going to stay here with the steamer?” Custer asked.

“I have come this far,” Falcon said. “It is my intention to go the rest of the way with you.”

“I wish you wouldn’t. I wish you would stay here with the boat.”

“May I ask why?”

“I just think it would be better that way,” Custer said.

“General, if you are concerned about my rank getting in the way, I will tender my resignation to General Terry tonight and accompany you as a civilian scout.”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” Custer replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It’s just that—well—if anything happens—I don’t want to be responsible for you.”

“General, I’m a grown man,” Falcon replied. “And I have been in more than a few tight spots in my life.”

“I know, I know,” Custer said. “I just want you to understand that you have a choice in this. You are not a member of the Seventh Cavalry. You are not even an active member of the army.”

“General, you are in charge of this expedition,” Falcon said. “If you order me to stay on the boat, I will do so. But I very much want to go.”

Custer paused for a moment, then reached over to his field desk and picked up a piece of paper and handed it to Falcon.

“Here are my written orders from General Terry,” he said. “Read them. If after you read them, you still want to go, I won’t stand in your way.”

Falcon took the paper from Custer and began to read:

Lieutenant Colonel Custer, 7th Cavalry Colonel:

The Brigadier General Commanding directs that, as soon as your regiment can be made ready for the march, you will proceed up the Rosebud in pursuit of the Indians whose trail was discovered by Major Reno a few days since. It is, of course, impossible to give you any definite instructions in regard to this movement, and were it not impossible to do so, the Department Commander places too much confidence in your zeal, energy, and ability to wish to impose upon you precise orders which might hamper your action when nearly in contact with the enemy. He will, however, indicate to you his own views of what your action should be, and he desires that you should conform to them unless you shall see sufficient reason for departing from them. He thinks that you should proceed up the Rosebud until you ascertain definitely the direction in which the trail above spoken of leads. Should it be found (as it appears almost certain that it will be found) to turn towards the Little Bighorn, he thinks that you should still proceed southward, perhaps as far as the headwaters of the Tongue, and then turn towards the Little Bighorn, feeling constantly, however, to your left, so as to preclude the possibility of the escape of the Indians to the south or southeast by passing around your left flank. The column of Colonel Gibbon is now in motion for the mouth of the Bighorn. As soon as it reaches that point, it will cross the Yellowstone and move up at least as far as the forks of the Big and Little Bighorns. Of course its future movement must be controlled by circumstances as they arise, but it is hoped that the Indians, if upon the Little Bighorn, may be so nearly enclosed by the two columns that their escape will be impossible.

The Department Commander desires that on your way up the Rosebud you should thoroughly examine the upper part of Tullcoch’s Creek, and that you should endeavor to send a scout through to Colonel Gibbon’s column, with information of the result of your examination. The lower part of this creek will be examined by a detachment from Colonel Gibbon’s command. The supply steamer will be pushed up the Bighorn as far as the forks if the river is found to be navigable for that distance, and the Department Commander, who will accompany the column of Colonel Gibbon, desires you to report to him there not later than the expiration of the time for which your troops are rationed, unless in the meantime you receive further orders.

Very respectfully

Your obedient servant,

E.W. Smith, Captain, 18th Infantry

Acting Assistant Adjutant General

Falcon finished reading the orders, then handed the paper back to Custer.

“You read that, Colonel MacCallister. Do you still want to go?”

“Yes,” Falcon replied.

Custer nodded. “All right, you can go as a scout.”

“Thank you, General.”